


A Drunken Bet

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Drinking, Fluff and Smut, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Matchmaking, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22068142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock and John get drunk together. They make a bet. A very special bet.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 98





	A Drunken Bet

“No luck, huh?” smirked Sherlock.

“No.” John, all signs of grumpiness showing on his face, let himself drop onto his chair again.

“She’s too tall for you anyway,” Sherlock remarked and sipped at his beer.

“Pardon?!”

“Well, no offence meant but you are rather short. And she...”

“It was just the shoes!” John hissed.

“If you say so.” Sherlock looked around in the pub. Usually he didn’t go to such places. But since Sherrinford… Somehow he felt more… _normal_ now. Had almost died. Again… Life was vulnerable. What was the big deal of getting a bit pissed? It wasn’t as if there were any interesting cases to solve right now.

John fumbled with the collar of his nasty jumper. “You think you could easily get her to go out with you, huh?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Without a doubt. I wouldn’t though. Told you girlfriends are not my area.”

John stared at him. “What about Irene then? You said you answered her sometimes.”

“Yes. After you were so desperate about texting with Eurus… You do remember I told you before that I never answer her?”

“Damn. Yes.”

“And even if I did – texting is hardly something intimate, is it?”

John shook his head. “So you are not into women. Men then? Damn, we never really talked about it!”

“Why should we? I am gay by orientation, yes. But it’s just theoretical.”

“Why? You could… Damn… Did you see her?”

Sherlock looked at the young woman with the long, red hair who was walking into the back of the room. “Out of your league, John.”

The doctor glowered at him.

*****

“So you think you’re irress… irrisssstible, huh?”

“Can have them all,” Sherlock nodded. They were back in Baker Street and had bought some bottles of beer on the way. Drinking at home was so much nicer.

“Yeah,” John snorted. “Molly, The Woman...”

“Easily. Don’t wanna though.”

“I know. All men, too, huh?”

Sherlock grinned. “Sure. Leshtrade.”

“Ah, no way. Straight.”

“Phhh. Looks at my arse.”

“He doesn’t!”

“Everybody does,” Sherlock claimed. He had such a nice arse. Sometimes he admired it in the mirror.

“ _I_ don’t.”

“Ah, you’d do me too.”

“I’m not gay!” John pointed at him.

“Ah. I could have you too. Aaaall the men. Donovan even!”

They both chuckled.

Then John set his bottle onto the table. “Wanna make a bet?”

“What about?”

“I’ll pick a man and you seduce him. You can’t back out.”

Sherlock shook his head vehemently. “Not Anderson!”

“Okay, not him. If you win, I’ll buy the groceries for a year. And if not, you do it. Deal?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock's head was spinning. Perhaps he should have eaten something. “Dimmock?”

“Nah. Way too easy.”

“Angelo?” Sherlock gulped. Their Italian friend was a great cook and superb burglar but...

John grinned. “Nope. Your brother.”

“What?!”

“A deal’s a deal. Honour and that stuff.”

Mycroft. Tall, elegant, sour-faced Mycroft. Sherlock giggled. “Fine. Conshidder it done.”

*****

“I’m not doing it.”

“Well, in fact you are. We made a deal.”

Sherlock shook his head and regretted it a moment later. Groaning, he rubbed his aching temples. “I was totally drunk. It doesn’t count.” He had hardly got out of bed this morning. This noon, actually…

“It does though. Of course, you can as well say it will never work and do the grocery shopping as we agreed.” John gave him a nasty grin. “A year is not that long.”

Sherlock fumed. “I don’t say it won’t work! But he’s my bloody brother! And I’m not doing the shopping either.”

“Then, my dear Sherlock, you are a coward and I never thought you were.”

Sherlock swallowed. He knew he was being manipulated by the man who had been his best friend for years before they had fallen apart quite spectacularly to return to their friendship again after going through hell together. They were sharing their flat again, with Rosie now, who was sitting on her father’s lap right now, staring at Sherlock's with huge eyes. Things would never be the same again but they had talked about all that had brought them apart over the past few years and had made their truce. Why did John torture him like this now? “You can’t force me,” he mumbled.

John grinned. “No. But I can tell everybody how you agreed to something and then didn’t have the guts to do it.”

Sherlock didn’t like that. He didn’t like anything about this, actually. He remembered the old times when John had unconditionally admired him. It had felt nice. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Excellent! I want proof of course.”

“Proof? Like what? Mycroft's sperm in a jar?!”

John laughed out loud. “And then we’d have to do a DNA test to make sure it’s his? Nah, nothing so complicated. Make a picture of him afterwards. Naked and spent.”

“You are crazy...”

“Maybe. But I can’t remember when I had so much fun the last time.”

And that was good. He liked John being happy. And he didn’t want to think about how Mycroft would react to this. Seducing him… How ever should he do this? He had never seduced anyone. And then Mr Iceman himself… Sherlock gulped and John gave him a knowing grin.

“It’s a challenge. Just the right one for someone as clever as you.”

Sherlock knew he was clever. But what he was about to do had nothing to do with his intellect and John knew that very well…

The doctor watched him with a merciless expression. “Well, I’d suggest you take a shower and shave and dress up, and then you can visit your dear brother. It’s Sunday. He’ll be at home.”

Sherlock didn’t like this plan. Not one bit. But he was no coward either… He got up and stalked to the bathroom, missing how John took out his phone.

*****

Mycroft had just sat down with a book and a cup of tea, accompanied by one precious chocolate, when his phone signalised a text.

He sighed and put ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’ onto the small, wooden table next to his chair. He had not read this play for ages and somehow he had longed to do it now after their conversation about him playing Lady Bracknell before the explosion. Fond memories of a time when life had not been so complicated, when his little brother, the most important person in his life, had still liked him and the weight of the kingdom had not yet been on his shoulders.

Frowning, he looked at the message.

_Mycroft, Sherlock is probably on his way to you. Could be a danger night. JW_

_It is four pm. What happened? MH_

_A danger day then. Not sure. He is in a weird mood. Be kind to him. JW_

And this from the man who had used his brother as a punching bag… It was not the time for this discussion now though.

_Tell me details. MH_

_I can’t. Just don’t put him off. Off to work now. JW_

The doctor didn’t answer to any of Mycroft's next text, and when Mycroft tried to call him, the number was not available.

Pacing around in his large living room, Mycroft was about to give order to track down Sherlock's phone when the doorbell rang. Relieved, he hurried to get to the front door after looking at the camera, showing Sherlock, ironically pacing in front of the door.

Mycroft opened up after stupidly smoothing his hair down. “Sherlock. Is everything all right?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?” blurted the younger man. “Can’t I just visit my dear older brother for no reason at all?”

Stunned, Mycroft looked up and down on him. He seemed unharmed and more or less sober. No drugs but probably some drinking the previous night, judging by his complexion and the state of his eyes. And he had just been smoking, which was alarming in itself. And when had Sherlock ever just come to visit him? Scare the truth about Eurus out of him with the help of his nasty friends, yes. But otherwise, he could hardly remember when Sherlock had been here. Ever. After the gruesome events of Sherrinford, they had only met a few times, mostly to discuss the non-existent progress their sister was making. Sherlock had not even been to the prison lately. And now he was here…

“Well, I appreciate it,” he slowly said. “Do come in.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock hurried into the house and shrugged off his coat, leaving it to Mycroft to hang it up neatly.

He was in good shape. Eating regularly, certainly thanks to the doctor and Mrs Hudson. Nothing to worry about. But John did worry. Why?

Mycroft followed Sherlock through the hallway, straight to the living room, where Sherlock immediately approached the whiskey Mycroft was keeping on a shelf. Sherlock gave him a questioning look and Mycroft nodded. It was a bit early but well, he couldn’t let Sherlock drink alone, could he? And apparently something _was_ bothering him. But Mycroft couldn’t deduce what it might be.

“Cheers.” Sherlock hurled himself onto the couch and patted on the spot next to him. “Do join me.”

The hand was shaking… Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but figured it would be the best to let Sherlock lead the way. His brother was here for a reason and he would tell him in his own time. He didn’t need money, so much was sure. Eurus didn’t seem to interest him that much anymore. The parents? Certainly not. And he didn’t look sick. Just nervous.

A minute passed with both men just drinking and sitting awkwardly next to each other. Sherlock seemed to use the whiskey glass as a lifeline. His eyes were unsteady. He seemed to feel more anxious by the second so Mycroft decided to help him along with whatever was on his mind.

“Sherlock,” he softly said after clearing his throat. “What can I do for you? What do you need?”

“You.”

And before Mycroft Holmes’ enormous brain could even seriously wonder what this remarkable reply might mean, he had an armful of consulting-detective-baby-brother and life as he knew it changed forever when soft, plush lips clumsily pressed a smooch onto his so far unkissed mouth.

*****

This was hardly a seduction. Even Sherlock, as inexperienced as he was, was well aware of it. There were no coy looks and arse-wiggling or whatever qualified as being seductive. This was him, more or less forcing himself onto his stunned brother after realising there was no way out of it if he didn’t want to deeply disappoint John and appear as a loud-mouthed coward. He knew he should be above this. Rationally, he knew this was not fair towards his brother or making any sense at all but he wanted to do it.

And Mycroft didn’t react the way he had anticipated. There were gasps and wide eyes and shock, yes. But no _‘Sherlock, are you crazy?! Get off of me!’_ . No _‘I’m your brother and we can’t do this, it’s forbidden!_ ’ No _‘I don’t want this so just let it be!’_

Instead Mycroft's arms were wrapped tightly around his waist. He was kissing him back – hesitantly and certainly appalled by Sherlock's lack of technique but kissing him.

And one part of Sherlock suspiciously wondered why but the much bigger part was shocked himself as he actually… enjoyed it… It was nice. Very nice, actually. Mycroft's mouth was soft and tasted of whiskey and tea and something sweet, perhaps even his own taste. His tongue was firm and not slimy at all, dancing with Sherlock's increasingly capably. Because his brother had not actually kissed someone in such a way before; it was an easy deduction. It was his first real kiss – and Sherlock would have actually had a few things to say about comments like _‘Don’t be alarmed – it has to do with sex’_ because if Mycroft had never kissed anyone seriously (even though he was taking to it like a fish to water), he most certainly was a virgin himself; but he knew he wouldn’t do it; the times of mocking and insulting his brother were obviously over. Mycroft had never wanted to kiss anyone obviously. Why him? He had to have a reason beyond probably being attracted to him. But then Sherlock accidentally touched his brother’s groin and Mycroft moaned into his mouth and any thoughts or suspicions seemed to vanish.

Instead he impatiently started to pull at Mycroft's clothes, and his brother gaped at him again but didn’t say a word but started to undress, probably to make sure his fancy suit and shirt survived this unexpected attack.

Sherlock happily let him take care of his clothes and got rid of his own – all of them. Naked and aroused – and damn did his long, hard, pink cock look good in the afternoon sun – he hurled himself onto his brother again, closing his long fingers around both their cocks, rubbing them while grinding against Mycroft, and they both moaned now. But Sherlock wanted more. He wanted to ride his brother. Because of this stupid bet? No. Because Mycroft was sexy and smelled good and wasn’t an idiot and would always look after him. And so he reached down to the shirt he had dropped carelessly onto the floor and took out a small bottle John had conveniently given him and handed it over to his stunned brother.

“Prepare me,” he demanded, and Mycroft looked horrified.

“No. It’s way too soon.”

Interesting. He didn’t say this couldn’t happen – it was only indecent to do it on the first… date? But they were not even having a date. Well, maybe they were, what did Sherlock know about such things? They had drunk a few drops of whiskey together after all.

Sherlock shook his head. “Now. Rub some of this into me and then I’ll saddle up.” He had read this somewhere and found it pretty funny. He didn't want to wait. He had never been the man to patiently wait for things to happen. This was what they should do, bet or not, and he didn't want to risk Mycroft changing his mind.

Mycroft looked at him as if he was close to passing out but when Sherlock gave him a fierce glare, he opened the bottle with shivering fingers and proceeded to indulge him like he had basically indulged him all his life.

*****

Was this really happening? Was little brother really riding him on his leather couch as if there was no tomorrow? Was his cock really buried in Sherlock to the hilt, caught most amazingly in a very tight, very hot canal?

If Mycroft had been able to think straight or to think at all to be precise, he would have wondered about John’s choice of words in his last text, would have wondered what the doctor had to do with this surreal situation. But he was in other spheres. His groin was on fire, his heart was swelling with love and gratitude and the part of his brain that had not zoned out was shouting _‘Finally, finally’_. Because of course he had dreamt of this for ages. Had cursed and condemned himself for wanting his brother in unspeakable ways. But now they were not being spoken but happening in a most arousing and spectacular way. And this sight… Little brother with flushed cheeks, glistening eyes, his beautiful lips parted, his pink tongue poking out in ecstasy, his curls flying, his hard cock bobbing against his stomach – Mycroft knew he would never forget this. It was ground- and law-breaking, amazing, horrible, fantastic and simply the best thing that had ever happened to him.

It was a rather short pleasure though. Sherlock grabbed his cock and groaned and then Mycroft was being showered with spurt after spurt of spunk and Sherlock's inner muscles contracted so heftily that his own orgasm was literally strangled out of him. He screamed and shot up to bury his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck while was still coming inside him, and then they fell onto the couch together, Sherlock's hard head almost knocking him out, but he couldn’t have cared less.

In wonder, he looked at Sherlock's face – and then Sherlock's look darted over to his clothes. He was looking for something. And then he briefly shook his head and nuzzled his face against Mycroft's cheek. But Mycroft felt as if he’d been showered with ice water. He had been looking for his phone. And probably not because he wanted to look up the weather report. John… John had known he was here. To do this? Why?

Sherlock obviously felt his displeasure. He raised his head. “Forget it, Mycroft.”

“Tell me. Why?” Mycroft sounded cold to his own ears.

“It was a bet,” Sherlock confessed. “We were drunk, and I said I could have everybody and he said I should seduce you. And take a picture afterwards to prove it. But I wouldn’t have done that!”

No. Obviously he had decided against it. But still… “A drunken bet. That’s all it was...”

“No! I did it because… Because I wanted to.” Sherlock seemed to be amazed by his own words. “I love kissing you. I love being… taken by you. It was great and I want to do it again!”

And Mycroft could see he was serious. Still there was the mystery of why John had done this. But was it really? Perhaps the doctor had learned a thing or two from Sherlock, deduction-wise, over the years. He had been there in Sherrinford. Had he seen what Sherlock had missed? Or perhaps Sherlock hadn’t; perhaps he had subconsciously seen Mycroft's feelings on display. John must have seen them – and taken the chance to… bring them together?

“Damn,” Sherlock mumbled. “John… He must have foreseen that you would be amenable to it. And he must have known I… like you.”

That Lady-Bracknell-moment… There had been some strange energy flowing between Mycroft and Sherlock. And the doctor had been in the middle of it. It was futile to think about why he had done it though. Mycroft was sure he had meant no harm even though of course this situation could have spectacularly backfired. But then – he had never hidden that Sherlock was the most important person to him. Sherlock had never cared about it – or perhaps, after all, he had…

“You like me?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I guess it’s a bit more than that, actually. Is that okay?”

Mycroft stared at him and then he smiled. “Yes, little brother. It is very much okay.”

They would have to figure out how to go on with this, how to hide it from Sherlock's other friends because Mycroft wouldn’t have counted on Mrs Hudson or Greg Lestrade, let alone Molly Hooper, reacting to this development equally positively. But they would make it work.

“Can we… Can we do it again?” Sherlock gnawed at his bottom lip.

Oh yes. Mycroft saw very happy times on the horizon. “We can. What do you say – should we go to my bedroom?”

Sherlock nodded vehemently. And then the two brothers Holmes went upstairs, hand in hand, to get to know each other better, both eager to explore the other one, not only physically, both happy Sherlock had won his bet.

And when he came home to Baker Street the next morning, John was sitting in his chair, grinning at him, and Sherlock grinned back and called John ‘pretty damn smart’ but confessed he had brought no proof for his success. But John assured him that this was fine – he could see it had worked out fine and he had already bought the groceries.

And so the Holmes brothers went on finding out everything about each other and pleasing one another just to bicker as soon as anyone but John was around them, and Sherlock and John returned to being the best of friends. Everything was lovely for Sherlock Holmes and the two men he was the closest to – his brother/lover and his best friend.


End file.
